


Shattered

by SunnySidesofBlue



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Decepticon Jazz, Do it or else, Hacking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Rape, Sexual Slavery, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:18:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnySidesofBlue/pseuds/SunnySidesofBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Autobot tactician Prowl makes good use of the Decepticon prisoner his Prime has given him</p><p>Written for a kinkmeme request</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've attempted writing Shattered Glass so please look the other way if I've messed something up. The fic is written in response to this kinkmeme prompt: http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/13205.html?thread=15418261#t15418261. More or less PWP

Jazz fought desperately to get his systems back online. There had been a battle, that much he remembered, and if you were offline and helpless on a battle field, Bad Things happened. The Autobots had been particularly vicious of late, even more so since a new master tactician had arrived to join their forces, and if there was ever a time when it would be worse than usual to get captured, this was it.

He could already feel vague echoes from his sensory net and knew coming fully online would not be pleasant. 

As soon as he was able to he tried to move, only to be instantly punished as the unpleasant ache exploded into sharp pain. It seems to radiate from his shoulders, hips and wrists, and now that he paid attention to it there were reports of breached armour in those areas.

Unable to withhold a groan of pain he finally managed to online his optics. His helm felt unnaturally heavy but he managed to lift it anyway. At first he thought he was staring into a wall, but then his gyros informed him that he was wrong by 90⁰ - he was _hanging_ from something, little more than an arm’s length or so from the floor.

Slowly and carefully he turned his helm and instantly identified the reason for his pain: someone had driven a set of heavy bolts straight through his shoulders and wrists, effectively pinning him to the surface above him. Although he couldn’t see it he assumed the same was true for his hips. 

He discovered that he could move his legs and tried to find a position that took some weight off the bolts in his hips but was only marginally successful. The table was too high for his knees to reach the floor but too low for him to straighten his legs completely, so his only options were to bend his legs very much or spread them very wide, neither of which would be comfortable for more than a klik or so before his knees or thighs started aching instead.

So, he was a prisoner.

Jazz grit his denta, forcing back fear with grim determination. His friends would come for him; Megatron would never allow one of his Decepticons to be left to the non-existent mercy of their Autobot foes. Even so, Jazz knew that staging such a rescue would take a while and in the meantime…

He cancelled that line of though before it got any further and forced himself to focus on his surroundings. Knowledge was power and if he would have any chance of freeing himself or in any way assist a rescue attempt he needed as much intel as possible.

Even from this odd perspective he could immediately tell that he was not in the brig, or in an interrogation cell. In fact it looked remarkably like an ordinary office. If he strained his neck he could see two wheels that were presumably part of a chair in front of him and since he couldn’t spot a door he assumed it was behind him.

Why in the name of the Pit would someone bolt him underneath an office table?

His imagination unhelpfully provided a number of unpleasant alternatives that he once again had to forcibly shove to the back of his processor. Instead he focused on the bolts that kept him prisoner. They were definitely too stout for him to break, but maybe if he pushed hard enough and the head of the bolt wasn’t too big he could force it through his armour. It would hurt like pit and certainly cause some further damage, but it’d still be better than remaining a defenceless prisoner.

Unfortunately it took less than a klik to dismiss that theory. Whoever had bolted him to the table had had the foresight to use washers, and large ones at that, making such an escape completely impossible.

Jazz was still venting heavily in pain from the attempt as he heard the door behind him open and two sets of pedes enter. One gait was light and agile, the other heavy and authoritative.

Jazz knew the second set all too well: Optimus Prime.

“As you can see, Prowl,” he heard the Autobot leader say, “I’ve taken the liberty of augmenting your desk with some of the spoils of last battle. I trust you’ll find the arrangement to your satisfaction.”

“Indeed I shall,” another voice, presumably Prowl, answered. “This will certainly make my long days in here even more rewarding than serving our cause already is. You have my thanks for this generous gift, my lord Prime.”

A deep, rumbling chuckle from the Autobot warlord sent chills down Jazz’s back strut.

“I’ll leave you to you work, then.”

With that the Prime turned and walked to the door, which closed the moment he had passed.

A pair of white pedes entered Jazz’s field of view, then their owner crouched down, bringing them more or less face to face.

“Let me make this clear, Decepticon,” the Autobot tactician said, “you are now here for my pleasure and enjoyment. Obey me and you’ll live.”

“Go jump in a smelter, Autobot!” Jazz hissed, trying to turn his helm away as the other mech stroked his chin. “I’d rather deactivate than obey you!”

The red-opticed mech smiled, a decidedly unpleasant look on his otherwise handsome face.

“You will only speak when spoken to, and you will address me as Master,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard his captive’s protests. “If you disobey, or fail to please me, _he_ will be the one to pay the price.”

A portable surveillance monitor was held up in front of Jazz’s face and the saboteur felt his spark turn into a lump of ice in his chest.

They had Soundwave.

“One word from me,” Prowl went on, “and he belongs to the twins. I’m sure you know as well as I do what that would mean.”

Jazz did. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were known for their vicious brutality, and the mere thought of his lover in their servos…

No, he could not allow that to happen. He would rather face an eternity of suffering than letting those two near Soundwave for even a moment.

“Have I made myself clear?”

Jazz vented a heavy gust of air and let his helm drop in resignation. His tanks churned in disgust but he forced himself to speak the words anyway.

“Yes… Master.”


	2. Chapter 2

Jazz groaned as he onlined to the sound of the door whooshing open. He had come to hate that sound profoundly in the decaorn he had already been held captive; it only ever brought him humiliation and pain.

Prowl stepped inside and went to sit by his desk without acknowledging Jazz’s presence with any word or gesture. The saboteur was well acquainted with the routine by now and knew he had about two breem to bring the doorwinged mech to the day’s first overload. Soon after that mechs would start arriving with reports, and although he didn’t have much in the way of dignity left to lose it still bothered him a great deal to have further witnesses to his degradation. If it was within his power to avoid it, he would.

No matter how many times he’d already done it he felt his tank churn and his face burn with humiliation as he found himself face to crotch plate with his tormentor. Nevertheless he obediently started nuzzling the panel, venting hot air over it to begin coaxing it open.

_For Soundwave,_ he repeated over and over again in his processor as he placed a kiss just below the red arrow on the tactician’s codpiece. _Every overload I give him means Soundwave is safe for a few more joors._

In one way his task had become easier with time; he now knew very well what kind of stimuli his captor responded best to and could at least cut down the time wasted on fruitless efforts. For the outer panel the keys were heat and soft, teasing caresses and that was what Jazz gave it.

It took him under a klik go get the outer panel to retract, which provoked strangely mixed feelings of achievement and disgust in his spark. The Praxian’s spike was still offline, as usual. He wanted Jazz to do all the work.

Tilting his helm to get a better angle Jazz extended his glossa and let it sweep over the tip of the recessed spike. Had he been able to he would have placed his lips over the array and sucked, which generally was the quickest way of convincing a spike to extend, but his range of movement was extremely limited due to the way he was bolted to the desk. If he really strained himself he could reach the array with his lips but he couldn’t hold that pose for more than a few nanokliks before his neck cables would start trembling with the effort, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to apply the necessary pressure so create suction. Asking the Autobot to move closer wasn’t an option either, so at this point his glossa was his only available tool.

Using the tip of his glossa he circled the tiny bulb that protruded from the other mech’s spike housing and after a while he felt how it started to respond. Proceeding to push his grossa directly against the tip of the extending spike, almost as if trying to keep it back, he then caressed it with short, light licks that were rewarded with a slight shiver of the array in front of him.

After some further coaxing enough of the spike was out for Jazz to start using his lips. He still shuddered in disgust at the feeling but forced himself to do it. The first times he had tried to imagine it was someone else, someone he liked, but the illusion always crumbled just as fast as he built it and in the end it wasn’t worth the trouble.

Licks became kisses and before long the spike was lodged firmly between his lips. Jazz had to fight the urge to bite it. He wanted nothing more than to hurt this mech but with Soundwave’s wellbeing in the balance he just didn’t dare. Instead he offlined his visor and began working the spike as best he could. The table top prevented him from bobbing his helm up and down so instead he tightened his lips and sucked hard, relaxed and then did it again, all the while caressing what parts he could reach with his glossa.

With a sudden surge the spike extended fully and Jazz felt his tanks heave unpleasantly as the hard intruder suddenly pushed down his intake. He really hated this part, especially since he couldn’t pull off even if he tried. Getting his lips and glossa to keep moving while all his sensors screamed at him to free his intake was difficult, even though it had become slightly easier since the first orn, but it wasn’t as if he had a choice.

Gyrating his helm as much as he could he then started humming, hoping today would be one of those orns when the Praxian responded well to vibrations. He hadn’t yet found a pattern but sometimes just a klik of humming could get his tormentor off, while other times it didn’t seem to affect him at all.

To his surprise the Praxian – who was usually almost completely quiet and rarely even actively acknowledged what went on under the table, except for when Jazz didn’t do his job properly – revved his engine and actually started moving his hips. It couldn’t really be called thrusting but it was enough to make the spike slide back and forth over Jazz’s glossa, just clearing his intake before going back again.

The visored mech once more had to fight not to purge his tanks. Nauseating though it was his throat tubing had grown somewhat accustomed to having a spike shoved down it, but this constant movement grated on the mesh lining and made the discomfort ten times worse. Unable to stop himself he let out a muffled wail of protest, and winced as he heard a quiet chuckle from above.

“You really don’t like this, do you?” he heard the mech ask, obviously rhetorically since Jazz had no way of replying, not to mention the answer was rather evident. He did rev his engine once though, the only form of defiance he dared attempt.

“Good,” the Praxian continued, then actually moaned as Jazz’s intake contracted in an automatic attempt at expulsing the invading object.

Jazz felt sick to the core as he felt Prowl’s EM field expand, forcing him, Jazz, to feel just how much pleasure the Autobot tactician drew from this act. His tanks heaved again as the doorwinged mech spread his thighs a little further and began rolling his hips more earnestly. He did not move faster but seemed to relish the feeling of his spike slowly sliding in and out of Jazz’s intake. The very slowness forced Jazz to feel every ridge, every minute detail of the Praxian’s spike as it rubbed against his lips, glossa and intake. 

It was almost more than he could deal with. Even after nine orns of forced immobility – which for a racer frame like his was almost as bad as being grounded was for a seeker – and having spent a disgusting amount of that time between the Praxians legs he had never felt so completely _trapped_ as he did now. Perhaps it was the fact that the Autobot had been so inactive until now that had lulled Jazz into a false sensation of having some level of control over what happened. That illusion was now brutally crushed as a pair of hands grabbed hold of his sensory horns, taking away even the limited range of movement he’d had up until now, and the thrusts into his mouth became deeper and more forceful.

For the first time in many, many vorns, Jazz panicked. Instinctively he tried to scream, to tear himself free, anything to just _get away!_ His legs, still unrestrained below the hips, kicked and flailed wildly but to no avail. He felt another rush of _power_ through his abuser’s EM field and on some level he knew that he was giving the fragger exactly what he wanted but he just couldn’t help it. His combat programing was screaming at him to fight or flee and he could do neither.

He was absolutely helpless

A shudder went through his entire frame as his face was suddenly crushed against the Praxian’s array, the throbbing spike as deep down his intake as it could possibly go. Then came the strangled groan from above and he felt his sore lining get coated with viscous, charged transfluid. His gag reflex protested weakly but as long as the channel was so completely blocked there was nothing to do except allowing the fluids to slowly trickle down towards his fuel tank. He couldn’t even swallow.

It felt like an eternity before the Praxian withdrew. When he finally did and let go of Jazz’s helm the saboteur felt himself go absolutely limp, a few hoarse coughs and the wheezing of strained intakes the only sounds that left him. He didn’t online his visor until he felt a hand on his chin, lifting his helm and bringing him face to face with his tormentor.

“That was quite a nice overload,” the Autobot said, a hint of a smile on his lips and an almost playful glint in his ruby red optics. “I seem to have underestimated the effect additional force would have on your reaction. A pleasant surprise indeed, one I look forward to exploring further.”

With that he let go and returned to his chair and his work, as if nothing had happened.

Jazz sagged again, his vents hitching with emotions he fought to keep in check. In spite of his efforts a few drops of cleanser fluid escaped his optics, dripping down and leaving stains on the inside of his visor.

_For Soundwave,_ he whispered in his mind, repeating the words over and over again.

He would keep doing so until the next time Prowl reached for him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There seems to have been some problem with the notifications for chapter 2, so please make sure you go back and read that one before proceeding with this, in case haven't already done so.

Jazz stared at the object in his tormentor’s hand. 

“Please… Master, don’t make me wear that,” he said, feeling a surprisingly strong rush of fear run through him. “It’s not necessary, I’ve done everything you’ve asked so far, haven’t I?”

Prowl met his gaze with a slightly amused expression on his face.

“Yes, you have,” he replied, bringing the object closer to Jazz’s face, “and you will keep doing so.” 

Instinctively Jazz tried to move his helm out of reach, only to hiss in pain as the Praxian suddenly grabbed one of his sensory horns, turning his helm and forcing him to meet his tormentor’s optics again.

“Or I could just comm the twins…”

There was no need to finish the sentence. Something between a growl and a whine escaped Jazz’s vocaliser as he allowed the Praxian to pry his mouth open, wedge the ring of the gag in behind his denta and then fasten the straps around his neck.

The ring was much too large for comfort and Jazz felt his jaw hinges start to ache almost immediately. He didn’t even want to think about how bad it would hurt after a “session” or two.

Even worse than the discomfort though was the fact that he’d lost yet another morsel of freedom. The Autobots had already taken away his ability to move and defend himself. Now he’s also lost his voice, or at least the ability to speak, along with the only hint of a weapon he’d had. He may not have planned to actually mouth off, plead or bite – he wanted to, badly, but he knew he wouldn’t as long as Soundwave was in danger – but just the knowledge that he _could_ had meant a great deal to him.

Jazz hadn’t though himself capable of feeling more humiliated than he already was, but when Prowl stuck two fingers through the ring and casually explored his oral cavity Jazz almost broke. He couldn’t say why this almost gentle probing was worse than all the oral rapes he’d already suffered through but somehow it was.

His vents hitched.

“Mmm, you do look good like this,” the Autobot said as he withdrew his fingers, rubbing them against his thumb as if to test the viscosity of the oral fluids that covered them. “Your distress is so delicious.”

Jazz struggled in vain to keep a whimper from escaping his vocaliser as he felt how oral lubricant started dripping from his lower lip. He tried to stop it even though he intellectually knew it would not be possible given his position and the way his mouth was forced open. Humiliation burned as he heard the Praxian chuckle at his failed attempts

Prowl was still crouching in front of Jazz as someone pinged for entry at the door. Whoever it was had apparently been expected since the tactician merely commanded the door open and let the visitor in.

As usual when Prowl had visitors a cascade of white noise invaded Jazz’s audios, preventing him from hearing anything that was said. The same disruptor that blocked him from sending or receiving comms had also been hacked into his audio feed, allowing Prowl to disrupt his hearing whenever he pleased. The only way of escaping the sound was to take his audios completely offline, but that was something he really didn’t like doing. As long as the noise was only annoying and not painful he’d much prefer dealing with it than not hearing anything at all.

Suddenly Jazz felt a flare of anticipation ripple through Prowl’s EM field and immediately tensed and braced himself. Even so it came as a shock when he felt a hand groping between his thighs.

He had been in dread of this moment ever since he woke up in this strange form of captivity. The fact that it hadn’t happened in the first couple of orns had led him to hope that maybe he would be spared that particular fate but now it seemed that hope had been in vain.

::Are you going to open that panel or do you want me to do it for you?:: he heard a voice say, the comm. signal momentarily cutting through the curtain of noise. He instinctively tried to reply on the same channel, only to have his own signal bounce.

Slag, he knew that voice. That was the sadistic Autobot medic.

He was unsure how he was supposed to react. He knew without a doubt what he _wanted_ to do, of course, but he was not sure whether Prowl was expecting him to fight or give in when the mech stroking his interface panel wasn’t Prowl himself, even though he tactician was obviously allowing it to happen.

::I don’t mind either way,:: the medic continued with a clearly audible grin, ::I always enjoy prying mechs open against their will.:: There was a sudden, harsh tug and Jazz grunted in pain as some kind of tool was wedged into a seam in his plating. He felt a flicker of approval from Prowl and how said mech’s crotch plate, mere inches away from Jazz’s face, started to heat up.

Was that the reason his tormentor had brought in another mech to molest him? Jazz had noticed that the sessions that provoked the strongest reactions from the Praxian were those when he actually used force against Jazz. He didn’t do that very often though, since he claimed it took an “inexcusable amount of time and effort” from his duties. The glitched fragger had even had a statistic for it, claiming that enjoying the passive pleasure of Jazz working his spike only demanded 1,436 % of his processing capacity, while “actively indulging” – his words – took up 72,68%.

Apparently he had decided that by letting someone else do the “active” part he himself could still reap the rewards without having to compromise his work ethic. How he would be able to focus on work while someone was rutting away just across the table was beyond Jazz, but then there were a lot of things the saboteur didn’t understand about the Autobot tactician.

He failed to suppress a thin whimper as he finally relented and let his valve cover slide open. He had no doubt that the sadistic mech would tear it off completely if he resisted long enough and that would mean being unable to cover himself even after the medic was done with him. As if his exposed position wasn’t already enough of an invitation to abuse him.

::There’s a good ‘Con,:: the medic said, sounding almost patronising. ::Now let’s see what we have here, hm?::

Jazz wished the mech would just shut up and get it over with. He grunted in discomfort as a finger was pushed into his valve. He tried to force himself to relax, knowing intellectually that it should make the upcoming violation at least slightly less painful, but his frame didn’t want to listen to such reasoning. Instead his pedes moved as if on autopilot, finding the medic’s frame and trying to push it away.

It was of course a futile attempt. Not only was he stiff and weakened from his prolonged lack of movement and insufficient fuelling – he’d only been given one ration every third orn or so – but the medic was a lot larger, heavier and stronger than he was, not to mention free to move as he pleased.

He was met with a chuckle as the finger started moving in and out of his valve. The lack of lubricant made the slide grating and he tried not to think of how much worse it would be when the finger was replaced by the mech’s spike. He shuddered involuntary and felt another wave of anticipation ripple through Prowl’s EM field. The Praxian’s spike cover slid open and almost absently the mech brought a hand down, directed the half-emerged spike at Jazz’s mouth and then returned to his work.

Jazz shuddered once more as he felt the stiffening rod slide through the gag ring and slowly extend towards his intake. With his mouth forced open like this his intake was tense and slightly cramped, and knowing that he’d soon have that spiked shoved down it anyway almost sent him into another fit of panic.

Then came an effective but highly unwelcome distraction as the finger in his valve way suddenly pulled out and something much larger was ruthlessly forced inside.

Jazz screamed in pain as his protesting valve was invaded by a spike that felt way too thick for his specs. With consent and ample lubrication he probably could have taken and enjoyed it, but like this it felt as if someone was shoving an _arm_ into him, and it hurt like Pit.

His scream was partially silenced as Prowl’s spike surged forward, lodging itself in his intake. As expected Jazz felt his tanks heave and his tubing contract spasmodically, which made the Praxian’s spike throb and heat even further.

Behind him the medic started rolling his hips, withdrawing his spike only to push it in again with agonising slowness. A lustful moan reached Jazz over the comm. but he barely registered it, his processor clogged with impulses to _fight-escape-resist-RUN!_ that he could neither obey nor shut down. He struggled violently against his restraints, desperate to _get away!_ but, as before, found himself unable to even budge them. His helm was firmly wedged between the Praxian’s thighs and the table, leaving him no wiggle room there either. His entire upper frame was starting to cramp from overtension and he felt a wire actually snap inside his left shoulder. 

It didn’t get better when his legs were grabbed, lifted, spread and bent so that his heels came to rest against the edge of the table, held in place by the medic’s strong grip.

::Are you enjoying yourself, ‘Con?:: the medic taunted, giving a particularly hard thrust that had Jazz keening again. ::I bet you haven’t been properly fragged in ages, with that drone you have for a lover. But don’t you worry, I’ll make sure to give you a _very_ good going over.::

The harsh, monotonous pounding continued and Jazz caught himself wishing he’d just pass out. Even bolted to the table his frame he was rocked slightly back and forth by the other mech’s thrusts and it made the bolts through his hips and shoulders chafe at his plating. The sensory net in those areas was already mostly dead but it was still not a pleasant feeling. And every little movement made his mouth and intake move around the Praxian’s spike, which in turn wreaked havoc with his gag reflex.

The approval in Prowl’s field was unmistakable.

Jazz felt how the medic let go of his pedes after a while, allowing them to fall back to the floor. This made the pistoning spike enter at a slightly different angle, hitting a set of sensors that had so far been somewhat spared from the onslaught, and the tormented saboteur’s vocaliser produced a sound that was half wail, half groan in protest.

That sound and the vibrations it caused brought Prowl over the edge, and again Jazz felt the sickening sensation of transfluid coating his intake and sliding down his tubing. Unlike previous times, however, the Praxian didn’t withdraw but stayed where he was. Jazz’s intake was burning, his neck and jaw hinges aching fiercely, and still the rocking continued, grinding in every little discomfort even more deeply.

He medic seemed bent on lasting forever, and Prowl had deposited yet another load of transfluid down Jazz’s intake by the time the other Autobot’s thrusts faltered and he finally withdrew. Jazz felt something trickle down his legs and wondered briefly if it was only transfluid or if there was energon in the mix as well. His valve burned even worse than his intake and he found it difficult to believe there could be such pain without damage.

With an insulting pat on his aft and a commed ::that was nice, we have to do that again some day:: the medic seemed to take his leave. Prowl shifted his hips slightly but to Jazz’s dismay he only pulled back enough to clear the saboteur’s intake and did not withdraw completely. The feeling of the temporarily sated spike resting against his lower lip and glossa made Jazz feel sick to his core for. A rush of immense hatred briefly eclipsed his pain and he wanted nothing more than to _hurt_ this mech who used him so demeaningly. Had it not been for the ring preventing him he would have bitten his tormentor at that point, with no regard for Soundwave’s safety or his own, simply lashing out like a mindless beast in his hurt.

But he couldn’t, and soon the flames of rage faded, giving way to strut-deep misery. He didn’t even realise he was crying until the shield of white noise disappeared and he heard his own hitching vents. 

Suddenly he felt a hand stroke his helm in what might be considered a gentle gesture, and he couldn’t even find the strength to do more than shudder at the touch.

“You did well, pet,” he heard Prowl say. “Now make sure you rest. You have 2,6 joors before the next visitor will arrive.”

Jazz heard, understood and felt something within him finally break.


	4. Chapter 4

::Hey, I’m talking to you!::

A shriek of feedback noise tore through Jazz’s audios and forced him out of his bubble of lethargy. He’d stopped paying attention to the mechs talking to – or, rather, at – him orns ago, since all they ever had to say were more or less graphic descriptions of what they wanted and planned to do to him. 

This mech, whoever it was, apparently wasn’t going to accept that.

Just like he had stopped listening he had also stopped bothering to identify the mechs violating him –it didn’t really matter anyway, did it? – and now he had to force his sluggish processor into working out who the voice belonged to. It took much longer than it should have and once he had a positive ID he wished he’d failed altogether.

Ricochet, head of Autobot Special Operations.

::That’s better,:: the Autobot purred, ::now pay attention:: He accentuated the word by slightly harder thrust into Jazz’s sore valve. ::It has been brought to my attention that Prowl isn’t all that happy with your performance anymore. I’m sure you try to put up an act for your lover’s sake but you’re not all that convincing, you know?::

It was true and Jazz knew it. He still hated what they did to him but he had by now become mostly numb to it. A mind can only take so much before it starts shunting emotions aside for the sake of self-preservation.

::I also happen to know just how unsatisfying it is for a sadist when his victim only _pretends_ to be suffering. You can never replicate that special _edge_ :: another harsh thrust :: that true fear and revulsion bring to a mech’s field and reactions::

Jazz allowed himself a groan and was rewarded by a twitch of the half pressurised spike between his lips.

::In fact he was even considering scrapping you,:: the mech continued, ::but fortunately for you we came up with an alternative.::

_Yeah, lucky me,_ Jazz thought bitterly and tried not to imagine the wonderful peace of not existing anymore.

::Your lack of satisfying reactions naturally stems from overexposure to certain stimuli,:: Ricochet pressed on, ::but let’s suppose we could make you forget that… ::

Jazz caught on almost instantly and a flash of very real panic raced through his spark. He screamed around the spike in his mouth as he felt a cable slide into his hacked processor port and a foreign presence started rummaging around inside his mind.

::Come now,:: the Autobot said in a patronising tone, ::don’t fight me on this or I might slip and accidentally delete something important. That would be awfully unfortunate, wouldn’t it?::

Frozen in absolute terror Jazz could only watch as the intruder skimmed through his memory logs. His instincts screamed at him to attack but he knew he stood no chance against the other’s firewalls when his own were already so thoroughly breached. Even trying might easily cost him his entire memory bank.

::There we go,:: the Autobot agent said triumphantly, and Jazz saw him mark a section from eight orns ago, just before the medic had raped him the first time. All files after that were marked for deletion. ::Now isn’t that kind of me, removing all those horrible memories for you?::

It was anything but, and they both knew it. In his recent state of lethargy Jazz had been reasonably safe in the knowledge that nothing they did could reach him anymore. Now he would have to go through the whole process all over again.

A countdown timer appeared on Jazz’s HUD and he felt Ricochet withdraw from his processor. The moment the mech disconnected Jazz attacked the firewalls his hacker had raised around the chosen segments with everything he had. He realised almost immediately that he would never be able to get through in time.

4:49, 4:48, 4:47…

::Now, let’s see if we can give Prowl a decent overload before you drop into stasis for the file purge, shall we?::

Jazz barely felt the harsh pounding of his valve, or the spike in his mouth that slowly hardened and then discharged down his intake. All he could focus on was that horrible countdown.

…1:09, 1:08, 1:07…

_Please, please don’t make me go through all of it again!_

…0:32, 0:31, 0:30…

_Please!!!_

…0:04, 0:03, 0:02, 0:01…

_Soundwave!_

***REBOOT***

***

Jazz onlined with a groan and a vague feeling of disorientation. He also noticed the mild aftereffects of a system-wide anaesthetic and an annoying ache in his jaw. As soon as he tried to close his mouth he realised that someone had slipped a ring gag on him while he was out. The ring was much too large for comfort and thus it was hardly a surprise that his jaw hinges were already protesting.

“Good morning, pet,” he heard his mast… his captor say, and he shuddered at the gentle caress over his forcibly parted lips. Then there was a sound of someone else behind him and a rush of horror and disgust went through him as a pair of hands appeared on the back of his thighs and something warm and wet snaked its way into his groin seam.

Above him the Praxian gave a quiet chuckle, then grabbed his prisoner’s chin and drove his spike home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to 12drakon for checking this over and helping me with Soundwave (and for inspiring me to write chapter 4 - you rock!). Because the original prompt was for a Shattered Glass AU, this Soundwave ended up as neither pure SG nor your typical G1 characterisation but something in between that I hope will work whether you're familiar with SG or not.

Soundwave couldn’t remember a single time in his life when he had run so fast.

His frame was protesting against the strenuous activity after having been almost completely inactive for over four decaorns but he resolutely pushed the discomfort aside. There were sounds of battle in the distance but he ignored them as well. He only had one clear thought in his processor.

_Must find Jazz._

The rescue party had of course come to the brig first in search of their captured friends but had only found the surprisingly intact-looking and absolutely livid communications officer. They had freed him and suggested he allowed half the team to escort him to safety while the others looked for Jazz but the mere suggestion had made the normally friendly telepath _snarl_ at them that he was not leaving without the saboteur.

Even as he led the way towards the officers’ section of the base Soundwave tried not to work himself into a panic about what he was going to find when he got there. He knew all too well what had been done to the mech he loved – for 43 orns he had been forced to watch every single act of depravity forced upon the saboteur and he prayed with his entire spark that the damage done, mental as well as physical, would not be irreparable.

It seemed to take ages but finally they reached the office of the Autobot’s chief tactician. Not taking the time to hack the lock they blew the door open and rushed in.

Even having been prepared for it, the sight of Jazz hanging limply under the table, his valve exposed and the back of his thighs still covered with both dried and semi-dried fluids almost made Soundwave crash. He stumbled over to the table, kicked the chair away and fell to his knees in its place.

Jazz was offline and it was difficult to tell if it was a medically induced stasis or if his processor had simply shut down, incapable of dealing with the trauma any longer. His face was clean except for the oral lubricant still dripping from his lips and dried flakes of the same showing here and there.

With unsteady hands Soundwave gently undid the straps of the gag and removed the ring that had sat there for 26 orns from between Jazz’s denta. The fact that the saboteur’s mouth stayed open hinted at wire damage or possibly even broken hinges. The telepath found himself shaking in anger, which only rose further as he for the first time saw exactly how his lover had been fastened to the table. The bolts had by now fused completely with Jazz’s armour, making it impossible to unscrew them. The saboteur would have to be cut loose. 

Soundwave heard Hook mutter something about “fragged-up slaggers doing something like this to a mech” as the Constructicon scanned the surface of the table for the exact spots where the bolts were and carefully started drilling through it from above. It took much longer than the telepath would have preferred and he had to fight the urge to order them to simply bring the entire table. While it would undoubtedly be quicker at this stage he knew the extra bulk would make the rest of the escape infinitely more complicated and so reined himself in.

Soundwave held his lover’s frame as best he could, taking more of his weight as bolt after bolt was drilled away. He sent careful, gently probing tendrils into the offline mech’s processor, projecting _love, care, safety_ as strongly as he dared. It was a delicate balance; He didn’t want to risk traumatising Jazz any further, which could easily happen if the saboteur onlined in attack mode to the feeling of a foreign element in his processor, but the need to comfort, to _know_ that the mech he loved was still in there somewhere was just too overwhelming. 

While he himself hadn’t been touched physically Soundwave knew he was far from unscathed by their time in captivity. Seeing orn after orn how first the Autobot tactician, then the better part of the officer cadre and finally a good portion of the rank and file forced themselves on the completely helpless saboteur had hurt him in ways no physical pain could ever match. Jazz may be spec ops but even he had limits to what he could endure and the lifeless expression on the saboteur’s face during the last few orns had frightened Soundwave beyond words.

_Please, Jazz, don’t leave me._

Finally the last connection point with the table was broken and Jazz’s frame came to rest completely in Soundwave’s arms. The telepath pressed the limp mech tightly to his chest and felt himself tremble with emotion. Jazz was here, Jazz was alive, Jazz was safe, Jazz was...

“Soundwave, we need to get out of here.”

Scrapper’s words brought Soundwave back to the world outside and laboriously he got to his pedes, the unconscious saboteur still in his arms. One look was enough to stop any of the other mechs present to offer to carry Jazz for him - nothing in the universe could convince Soundwave to let go of his precious burden at this point.

Filing out through the destroyed door the rescue team formed a loose circle around their two faction mates as they moved along, hurrying through corridors that were blissfully empty. Megatron had made sure to hit the Autobots with everything he had in order to draw as many as possible of them out of the base and thankfully it seemed to have worked out well. Normally there would have been strings of concern for his fellow Decepticons in Soundwave’s mind – large scale attacks like this were more or less bound to result in casualties – but right now the communications officer found himself unable to focus on anything beyond the mech in his arms.

That was, until they entered the main entry hall and he found himself almost face to face with Prowl.

For a moment, time stood absolutely still.

The Autobot tactician seemed neither surprised nor worried to see them, and he calmly met Soundwave’s gaze with a hint of a smile. The soldiers around him quickly repositioned themselves to cover this new threat but the Praxian held them back from firing with a tiny gesture. 

“I see you’ve managed to drag my pet out from under my desk,” he stated casually, eyeing the black and white shape huddled in the telepath’s arms. “I must say I’m rather surprised you’d even bother, considering how thoroughly _claimed_ he has been by now.” 

It was eerily quiet as both sides watched the staredown between the two officers, one smugly superior and the other visibly trembling, clutching the object of the conversation tightly to his chest. 

“He’s not likely to ever let you touch him again, you know,” the tactician pressed on, mercilessly. “He’ll always remember what I did to him, and that part of him will belong to me forever.”

Soundwave snapped. Four decaorns worth of fear, fury, anguish and _hurt_ exploded within him and he lashed out with it, hurling it all into the processor of the mech that had hurt Jazz so badly.

For a moment Prowl looked shocked, confused. Then his optics flared and he sank to his knees, clutching his helm and screaming as the telepathic attack blasted right through his firewalls, fragmenting everything in its path.

The barrage didn’t last for more than ten nanokliks or so but by the time it was over the Autobot tactician lay twitching and whimpering on the floor, a smell of burnt out circuitry emanating from his helm. 

Soundwave was venting heavily as he regained control of himself and his mind cleared from the blinding rage. He did not often use his telepathy as a weapon and he had never before lost control the way he just did. It was an unsettling experience but, considering the result, not one he regretted. The damage he’d done to the tactician’s mind would probably not prove fatal but there was no doubt the mech would be in absolute agony next time he onlined and for the foreseeable future.

And that suited the Decepticon officer just fine. He may not be vindictive by nature, but this mech had long since forfeited every chance of forgiveness Soundwave may have been willing to give.

He shook his helm to clear the last echoes of the tactician’s screams, and that seemed to release the spell of horror and awe that had settled over the witnesses to the scene. The Autobot soldiers quickly grabbed their downed officer – not so much out of loyalty, Soundwave guessed, as from fear of the Prime’s wrath – and fled the scene as fast as their legs would carry them.

“That was… interesting,” Hook commented drily and gave his superior a searching look. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” the telepath replied in a neutral voice that gave no hint as to the truth or falsity of the statement. “Jazz is the one who needs help.”

“Of course,” the Constructicon said, putting a lid on his professional curiosity about the unusual attack for the time being. “Let’s proceed, then.”

***

It was a joor and a half later, in the relative safety of Astrotrain’s hold and speeding away from Autobot HQ, that Jazz onlined.

The process was so quick that even Soundwave, who had still to let the saboteur out of his embrace and was keeping a close optic on him, was taken by surprise. A high-pitched, wordless scream rose from the mech’s vocaliser and he started thrashing wildly but without any real coordination. His visor was online but he didn’t seem to be able to process its input and the thick waves of absolute terror that rolled through his EM field spoke clearly of the fact that he had no idea of where or in whose company he was.

“Jazz!” the larger mech called, first out loud and then telepathically, all the while struggling to keep the frantic mech from harming himself. _“Jazz, listen, you’re free, you’re safe, I’m here!”_

It took several repetitions before the words seemed to register in the panicking saboteur’s processor, but then as suddenly as it has started the flailing stopped and the black and white mech instead dug his fingers into Soundwave’s plating and clung to him as if his life depended on it.

“Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, I can’t take it, they’ll kill you, please don’t leave me!”

The words tumbled out, barely distinguishable due to the still not fully functional jaw hinges, but Soundwave heard them in his processor as well, and there they were crystal clear.

_“Safe,”_ he repeated, projecting more strongly now that he knew his lover was aware of his presence. He shifted his grip to one of protection and comfort rather than restriction and was rewarded by a pulse of relief and gratitude in the smaller mech’s field. _”Safe with me.”_

Jazz relaxed and released a long, shaky vent of air. Finally he turned his helm and met Soundwave’s gaze, and the telepath was relieved beyond words to see sanity in his lover’s half concealed optics. There was a lot of pain and fear there as well, but bent and bruised though he might be, Jazz was still Jazz.

Soundwave felt his own emotions swell inside him and before he knew it his vents were hitching and cleanser fluid blurred his vision. He had been so afraid that the mech he loved would die under that table, mind and spirit broken beyond recovery even if his frame was eventually rescued.

The balance between them shifted subtly and instead of one mech comforting another there were now two mechs clinging desperately to each other, seeking and giving comfort and reassurance in equal measure. All thoughts of past and future temporarily ceased to exist and there was only _here_ and _now_ and _them._

They would sit like that until recharge claimed them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this fic, thanks for reading.


End file.
